Mylow's Muddle
by robspace54
Summary: Mark Mylow has to deal with losing his fiance. How will he get over this?
1. Chapter 1

Unhappy People

"You see, Doc?"

"No, I don't! Why _do_ you feel so inadequate, Mark?"

PC Mark Mylow looked up sheepishly, his eyes wary in his freckled face under a shock of brown hair. "Well, you know, Doc." He was seated in front of my desk in surgery.

"No. I don't," I snapped. "You tell me. It's not the uh… private thing… is it? I'm certain that things… erh… the thing… is perfectly adequate…"

"No!" Mark Mylow, the constable of Portwenn, sighed. "Not that – thing. You know!"

"No, I don't Mark. So get on with it!"

He stared at the floor for quite a while. "It's Julie," he said sadly.

"Julie?"

"Yeah, Doc! Julie Mitchell, no I mean Emma Lewis! Or whatever she's calling herself this month."

"Your ex-fiancé?" I shook my head at the sad policeman. "Oh, come on, Mark! I can't believe that you're still taken by her?"

"Taken Doc? Yes, I've gone totally Bodmin I have! But am I mad, sad, or in love? God!"

"Well, yes… perhaps _you_ can tell me."

He stood up, pulled the wrinkles from his police jumper and turned as if to go, but then glared at me. "If I knew that Doc, why would I be asking you?" He struck his forehead with his hand. "I can't stop thinking about her!"

"You'll just have to… forget about her. Put it behind you. She is incarcerated, after all."

"Yes, Doc! I know! And I put her there, in the clink! Along with her unborn baby!" he groaned.

"Technically you didn't actually arrest her, now did you?"

"I did send the report on, Doc!"

"And it's not your baby, either is it? The test… established that before…"

"Thanks a hell of a lot, Doc! You bring that up? Damn it, Doc!"

A fertility test had showed that Mark Mylow was sterile. And Julie, or whoever, was already pregnant when she came to Portwenn and started dating Mylow. "Mark, erh… sorry. I was only saying…!"

"You've said bloody enough for one day Doc!" He darted for the door.

I sat there with mouth gaping as he left the room and slammed the door behind him. The sound reverberated in the surgery then Pauline waltzed in wearing a clashing green skirt and orange top. Her red trainers made a special accent to her ensemble along with gaudy bracelets and a huge necklace.

"What's wrong with Mark?" she asked. "He seems really upset."

"Well… patient information. I can't discuss it."

Pauline nodded. "Yeah. I know. Secrets. Probably about Julie anyway. Should I send the next patient in? It's Mrs. Holcombe. Her elbow is acting up again."

Mrs. Holcombe was eighty-three years old, lived on a small holding near town, and still insisted on washing windows, hauling ladders, and doing every dog's body work about her place. I treated her last month for elbow inflammation. And she was back again. "Send her in."

"Mrs. Holcombe," I went on, "I've suggested that you rest this arm. Here you are once again with an injury that if you'd only rest the joint…"

"Doc Martin! Are you telling me that I should live in a house with dirty windows? My neighbors would be scandalized. Can't be done!" the little lady told me, her petite frame full of agitation. "I'll not do it."

"Yes." I knew she'd not follow orders but I tried anyway. "Well then, I suggest you use paracetomal several times a day, ice the joint – not too long at a time – and rest it as much as possible."

She stood up and glared at me. "That's what I did last month and it did no good!"

"Mrs. Holcombe! Those are my instructions and if you don't follow them… there is nothing else I can do. If you insist on scrubbing your house top to bottom at your age…"

She cut me off. "Some doctor you are!" she said, then whirled and stomped out. Another happy customer of the Portwenn GP.

Pauline swept into the vacuum. "That's it Doc. Nobody else on the schedule."

"Ah." I penned notes to the patient record and handed it to Pauline. "Well…"

"Can I go?"

"What if someone arrives in the next forty-five minutes and I require your services? Certainly there must be some filing you could do."

She sniffed and flounced out, muttering as she went, followed by drawer slamming and papers being flipped about. This went on for a time then Pauline came back. "Now I'm done."

"Records filed away and the schedule updated for tomorrow?"

"Yeah." Her eyes wandered about the room.

"Blood samples packed off?"

"Yeah," she sighed.

"Disgusted with me again?"

"Yeah. Oops, sorry, Doc." She followed this with a laugh.

I sneered. "Whatever. Go on! Out with you!"

"Thanks. Night Doc!" she breezed away and the front door closed and locked behind her.

At least someone was happy leaving my surgery.


	2. Chapter 2

Julie and Emma

Emma Lewis, or Julie Mitchell, as she called herself in Portwenn, was tall, blonde, and well built. She had taken up with Mark Mylow in very short order after she moved to the village. If Mark had any lingering doubts about the size of his manhood, well, clearly Julie didn't mind considering the heat they generated between them in a few weeks. In quite short order Mark then asked her to marry him and she said yes.

In all fairness to the woman she did not know that she was pregnant when all this was happening or that Mark was sterile. But based on the progress of her pregnancy, and the fact that Mark had azoospermia - no sperm - gave lie to the possibility that he was the father of her child.

Julie's admission to me that the baby's father was 'some bloke in Exeter' followed by her threat to sue me if I told Mark was something else entire. As a physician I was sworn to tell the truth, and to hold patient information confidential, but her situation and the threat put me into a delicate legal position. Plus the bite in her voice when she warned me told me that there was a lot more to Julie Mitchell than an attractive face, winning smile, and a swishy walk. There was steel to this woman and I knew that things going forward would be difficult.

I could not tell Mark that he was not the father, but I was able to tell him that he had no sperm – he was sterile. Mark Mylow may be no rocket scientist, but he could read a calendar, and he rapidly determined that he could not be the dad based on dates.

Around the same time a Salvation Army man showed up looking for Emma Lewis, as her mother was dying, and the girl had been missing a very long time. It was Louisa Glasson who brought the man and the picture of a young girl to me, to confirm her own suspicions. The face was younger and so was the body, and the hair was dark, but the face of the thirteen or fourteen-year old in the picture - the basic bone structure, shape of the lips and cheeks, the ears – all pointed directly to one particular woman. One we knew in the village as Julie Mitchell.

Quickly Mylow discovered her other aliases as well as her criminal past. Fraud, theft by deception, impersonation, and a long list of relatively minor offenses, all of which when taken together would send her to jail for a time. A growing pregnancy, however, would likely, to my mind, provide some leeway in any judicial procedure.

I am no judge, but I always feel that the punishment should fit the crime. Punishment, however, seemed to be meted out in this case both to Julie, that is to Emma, and to Mark Mylow.

He was still quite sad when I saw him at the grocer that evening. He passed me in the aisle with his little basket of groceries.

"Doc," he said grimly.

"Mark," we greeted each other. "You're shopping."

"Yes," he looked at his purchases. "Have to eat."

"Yeah. There is that."

"Doc, about today, at the surgery. I'm sorry, I blew up."

I held up my hand. "It's alright. I know… things can be difficult."

I thought about how upset I had been, and still was about Danny Steele and Louisa. Although Danny had decamped to London, the fact that he had been near, too near to my mind, to Louisa still rankled. He had even asked her to marry, and Louisa had said yes! That really got under my skin, but since I was always too keen to hide my feelings, I was also kicking myself for allowing Danny to get _that_ close to her.

And then there was the wine thing. I told Louisa that I didn't drink and that was for good reason. Alcohol in any form puts me to sleep. It's not a matter of where - it's when. Even a small amount can depress my brain to the point that I doze off.

"Care for a drink?" Mark asked. "I'll buy?"

"No, I don't drink you know that."

"Yes. I know. Water then?" He grinned. "By the way, there's a photo being passed about… something about a dog?"

Louisa and I had polished off around two bottles of my father's wine on the tail of a long round-about chat, at her insistence. I have a vague memory of telling Louisa that she was beautiful and I loved her, also her saying that she loved me. Then the lights went out and I found myself waking up on my kitchen floor cuddling the mangy gray dog that insists on hanging about me and my cottage. Just my rotten luck to have Pauline take photographs with her cell phone camera the next morning. Portwenn thy name is gossip.

"Yes. Embarassing," I answered him quietly.

"Can't be worse than me, can it Doc?"

"No. I suppose not."

Mark smiled. "We're a couple of sorry buggers aren't we? Unlucky in love and all that?"

I sighed. "Yeah. And Mark, about that drink…"

"Yeah, Doc?"

"I'll meet you at the pub in fifteen minutes."

"Right!" he said, grinning ear to ear, and marched off to pay for his purchases.


	3. Chapter 3

At the Pub

The pub was busy as usual at this hour. Al and Pauline were ensconced by the bar, Bert had staked out a table to the side along with Roger Fenn who was holding forth, his hands strumming an air guitar. Roger was quite impassioned about Maureen Treacy's pregnancy and the impending birth of their twins. Seems that his music lessons had given new life, both to Roger and Maureen.

Roger was post treatment for his throat cancer but all signs were well on that quarter, so far. Maureen had taken up residence in a bed-sit in Wadesbridge to be near hospital, given she was an elderly primagravida, being over thirty-five years old and pregnant for the very first time and with twins as well.

Roger glanced at the door when I came in and called to me. "Doc! Come over here a minute!"

I walked to their table and Bert looked up at me from his brew. "Doc Martin. Well I'm sure Peter the barman has the finest mineral water waiting for you! Have a seat."

I ignored the jibe. "I'm meeting Mark Mylow here. Seen him?"

Roger and Bert gave each other a long look.

"How's he doing, Doc?" asked Roger. "Poor bugger. To be in love with that girl, then to finds out she's someone else?" He shook his head sadly.

Bert slapped the table. "Oh come on Roger! Give Mark some time to get over it. He must be feeling… quite low. But he had a drink with Al and me last week and he was good enough then. Bit quiet perhaps, though."

"I'm just saying," Roger went on, "that when the Doc here told me he thought I had cancer, knocked the pins out from under me. But I got better; got over it! It was the happiest day of my life when the path report came back clear. Well anyway, Doc, I wanted to ask about Maureen."

"Yes. How is she doing? Babies well?"

"Quite well, really. Cooking along nicely. Another few weeks. But when I went to see her yesterday she got all weepy when I walked in - all blubbering and all."

"Probably perfectly natural, Roger. Pregnancy hormones... create any number of issues with a woman's body and mind."

"Oh?" an upset voice interrupted me. Louisa Glasson stood at my side. "What's that Doctor Ellingham? You saying pregnancy causes a woman to go Bodmin?"

"No. Not what I said, is it? What I am saying…"

She cut me off. "But couldn't I say the same thing about the effects of alcohol on certain people? Or people in general?" She stood across from me grinning ear to ear.

Bert and Roger tried very hard not to laugh.

"Thanks! Thanks all of you!" I blurted out. "Bad enough to make fun, but to have photos passed about…"

Louisa put a hand on my arm. "Martin? Take it easy. God! Just letting you see how it feels. What if you were a woman and were pregnant and at every action someone excused it saying you were _hormonal_?"

Roger laughed out loud. "If I did that to Maureen she'd knock my block off!"

I bristled. "But I'm not a woman…"

"Thank God for that," exclaimed Bert.

"Yeah. I'm glad too." I sneered.

"Oh, really Martin? Well I'm glad you're not a woman either," answered Louisa who then retreated to the pub terrace.

Bert and Roger laughed so hard they nearly fell off their chairs.

All I could do was call out, "Tossers!" as I walked away from them. I looked about, but with no Mark to be seen, I squared my shoulders and went to the terrace to talk to Louisa. I knew it would be difficult. I was always uncomfortable near her, for various reasons.

She was standing at the railing holding a glass of red wine and she didn't hear me as I approached. "Louisa…"

She started at the sound of my voice. "Martin? Sorry for that in there, I was only saying…"

I held up my hand. "Alright. I probably deserved that."

"Well; sorry all the same." She put her hand on mine where it sat on the railing. "And also… about the slap the other day."

"I was, erh, off base. The erotomania comment… obviously…"

She took her hand away. "Martin! Let it go, ok?"

"Right."

"But I heard you say you're meeting Mylow?"

"Yes, not fifteen minutes ago I saw him in the market. He's not here yet. Curious."

Pauline stuck her head outside. "Doc? You asking about Mark Mylow?"

"Yes, have you seen him?"

"Yeah. Al and I saw him come dashing out of his cottage, leap into the police Rover and drive off, out of town! Not five minutes ago, too!"

"Oh, dear," replied Louisa. "I wonder what that's all about?"

"Yes, strange," was all I could say.


	4. Chapter 4

Missing the Mark

"Not like Mark, is it?" asked Louisa. "He's usually reliable. Eager, but reliable." She sipped her wine. "Martin, would you like… something to drink?"

"No." I looked at her bright eyes. "Yes. I'll get some mineral water."

"As long as its not from Bert's well," she whispered. "Wouldn't want you to be sick."

"No. Horrid." I recalled the near epidemic of cryptosporidium which crippled Portwenn in the past. I went to the bar and ordered water.

Peter the barman looked at me eagerly. "How are things, Doc?"

"Fine."

He plunked down a bottle and a glass. "Ice?"

"Yes."

"So what you think about Danny Steele leaving so sudden like? I heard that he asked Louisa Glasson to marry and she says _yes_. Then all of a sudden he gets some smashing big contract in London and he's flown off. And that's when Louisa said _no_. What you think about that?"

I'd turned to look at Louisa through the open door. She turned just then and gave me a brilliant smile. "Fine, uh…"

"And I see you're lookin' awful hard at Louisa yourself. What you think, Doc?" Peter went on.

"Rubbish." I sighed.

"What's that? She's rubbish, Danny's rubbish, or is this water rubbish? Or I am rubbish? What do you mean?"

I turned on him. "Just give me the bloody water will you?"

"Suit yourself," he said with a smirk.

I swept the glass and bottle from the bar and turned towards the door just as Dave, the Postman, bumped into me, spilling a good portion of his pint down my trousers.

"Gawd, Doc! Sorry! Didn't see you there!" He lifted a towel from the bar and tried to dab at the spreading stain. "Lordy, right on the mark! Let me help you!"

I pushed him back. "Oaf! Just what I wanted - a perfectly fine evening wearing your stinking beer!"

"So sorry!" Dave said and dropped the cloth into my hands. "I'll be off!" he said as he stumbled away.

I drippingly journeyed back to the terrace where Pauline was just leaving Louisa.

"Doc," my secretary started, "having trouble with some beer?" She grinned as she said this.

"No. I always come to a pub to get soused with liquid!" I snarled.

Pauline walked away quickly, bracelets clanking, and I heard her chuckling as she went back to Al.

Louisa came to me and brushed at the stain with a cloth from the waiter's stand. "Oh, Martin! Pity. I'm sure Dave didn't mean it!"

"No. Of course not! I wonder if he drives the Postal van with the same skills that he uses in the bloody pub!" By now the liquid had penetrated to what were normally dry and warm regions. I shook my leg as the unpleasant sensation caused chills on my body

"Oh, dear! You're shivering. You should get out of that that suit…" Louisa started then bit her lip. "I mean you should strip off… well, at least take those wet trousers off…"

She stopped and stood there as I looked at her with an amazed look, but no words came to my mouth.

Her hand flew to her mouth. "That didn't come out right, did it? I mean you need to dry off."

"No. Yes." I put the water glass, the mineral water, and the towel on a table. "I should, erh, go. Goodbye."

"Oh Martin. I _am_ sorry."

"Louisa…"

"Oh Martin, it will be ok, I hope."

"Yeah. Another perfect evening in Portwenn." I nodded and tried to smile, but gave more of a sarcastic smirk. "See you." I turned to go.

"Some other time, perhaps?" Louisa stood next to me, her eyes bright and shining and I wanted to wrap something hard and painful around Dave's head. She drank some wine. "Maybe tomorrow?"

"Maybe." But then I stopped and looked at her. "It was nice seeing you… tonight."

Louisa smiled broadly. "Nice seeing you too, Martin. Goodnight!" She looked up at me, her eyes luminous and teeth dazzling.

I went from the pub and made my way up Roscarrock Hill to the surgery, squishing with each step. The local teen girl pack, dressed in pastel tank tops and khaki shorts, passed me on the way, making snotty remarks about 'weeing my pants,' 'not being able to hold my drink,' along with other noxious comments.

But Louisa's final words shielded me from all their nastiness.


	5. Chapter 5

Note from Newquay

I dried the suit trousers as best I could and was pulling out the newsprint I'd stuffed into my shoes to absorb the beer when there came a knock on my kitchen door. I was standing there in an old pair of trousers I'd ruined in the bog when I was sent to the moor on a sophomoric trip to find Ross the surfer, another one of my early misadventures in Portwenn, plus a battered shirt and stocking feet.

I opened the door and Mark Mylow was standing there with a confused look on his face.

"Mark, where'd you go? Come in."

"Yeah, Doc. Thanks." He stepped inside and gave me the once over. "Not your usual sort of clothing, is it?"

"No. Long story. You didn't answer my question. I went to the pub and you never showed." I glanced at my watch. "That was almost two hours ago."

"Well… say, you wouldn't have anything to drink here would you?"

"Yeah. Go through to the, erh, sitting room." I pulled a half bottle of red from the fridge. "Red ok?"

"Yeah. I usually go for a pint but, I'll take what you've got. Need a bit, to uh, put me back on my feet."

I looked hard at Mark. "Are you on duty?"

"No. Not at this hour."

I poured him a glass of wine and handed it over. He took a large gulp and half the contents disappeared then he slumped onto the sofa. "Sorry, needed that." He held out the glass. "More?"

"Yeah." I'd never seen Mark quite like this. "Mark, are you… ok?"

"Doc! You won't believe it! I got a note, found it under my door when I got home with the groceries."

"Oh?"

"It was a postcard, one a tourist might buy." He took a deep breath. "It said if I wanted to talk to Julie, I should go to the Newquay aquarium, right by the main door."

"Really. And you went."

"Yup." He drank more wine. "Straight away."

"Anyone there?"

"No, just the night watchman and a marine biologist who was caring for a sick fish."

"Oh?"

He looked at the floor and then put his glass on the table. "I knocked, pounded really. Finally this watchman comes out. Tells me to bugger off. They're closed – all that. Says it's only him and the biologist there. I should go home."

"Did you?"

"Well here I am!" He clapped his hands together. "Guess what?" he asked his face aglow.

"No. I don't play guessing games, Mark. You should know that by now."

He stood up, came across the room and hugged me, as I stood in the archway. I recoiled not being used to large male policemen putting me in a clinch. I pushed him off. "Mark! Stop it!"

"Alright, but Doc there was a letter from Julie under the windshield wiper when I returned to the Rover!"

"Oh? From Julie? Or should it be Emma or any of those other names she used?"

"Oh, come on Doc! I know it seems fantastic, but here it is!" He pulled a thick envelope from his jacket. "See?"

The envelope was addressed in a feminine hand, all loops and curlicues. For the life of me I do not know why women can't write legibly – and they say that doctors scrawl. In large script I could make out Mylow, the word in front seemed to start with a block letter 'M,' but the rest was unreadable. "You say this is from Julie?"

"Yes," he said his face beaming. "This is her handwriting!"

"You haven't opened it."

"No." His face fell. "Afraid to."

"What's this first word?" I pointed to the smudgy letters.

He said, "That's 'Marky' – what she always called me when we were, uhm… _alone_. You know, sort of a…"

"I get it." I looked again at the envelope. "It's all smeary."

"Yeah, Doc. I think those are the marks of her tears."


	6. Chapter 6

Horse and Cart

I looked at his happy face and asked what must be asked. "Mark, are you sure that you, erh… want to do this? After all… the trouble?"

"Yeah, Doc. I do." He stood there beating the thick envelope on his hand.

I smacked my lips. "Your funeral."

"Well, it's mine then, isn't it? My choice, Doc." He waved the envelope about. "But maybe I'd better sleep on this. What you think?"

"Good idea." I picked up the glass from the table. "More wine?"

Mark had a distracted look. "No. Had enough."

I took the glass to the sink and rinsed it. "You know, Mark," I started, "the day everything blew up about Julie, uh, Emma, whoever, you told me she'd driven a horse and cart through you life."

"Yeah, I did say that, didn't I? I was upset, real upset."

"Are you sure you want to, erh, ride that thing again?"

He sighed. "Doc, what if you was lookin' for someone for a long time and maybe you didn't even know who you were lookin' for? Then one day this person just waltzes into your town and there they were? Right there in front of you. What would you do?"

"I suppose I'd go for it." I looked away sharply as these were the very words that Louisa had used when she described Mark and Julie's problem two weeks ago. She said that she admired Mark as _he_ _went for it_. Now here I was using the same words to Mark. "Perhaps…" my voice trailed off.

"Yeah, that's what I think too." Mark sighed and tried to dig a hole in the floor with the toe of his trainer. "And you said something else to me. I've thought about it a lot, Doc."

"What's that?"

"When I told you that Julie had driven a horse and cart through my life that day, you told me '_she's no horse_'. There, I said it. Julie - or whatever she wants to call herself - she's no horse, never was, never will be!"

"No. I agree. She's a person."

"And pregnant besides." He sighed and went on. "And I did love her."

"Yeah. What about the legal thing?"

"Don't know Doc. Don't know. Have to see." He said in clipped tones.

"Mark, you're a policeman! Do you really want to…"

"To do what, Doc? Why do you think I ran off to bloody Newquay? Are you so dense that you don't see?"

This was getting irritating. "Oh, I hope not!"

He waved the letter in my face next. "And look! Right here! She's written to me!"

"You haven't opened it yet Mark – don't know what it says."

"No I haven't, have I? But here!" and he thrust the thing under my nose. "Smell!

I smelled perfume, cloying and flowery.

"Doc! That's her perfume! Can't you see?" he went on.

I batted the thing from my face. "Mark! Mark. I just don't want you to get hurt, is all. All I'm saying."

He sighed and put the envelope back into his jacket. "Doc, can I say something?"

"Yup."

"This will make you mad, but here goes. When Danny was so close to Louisa, how'd that make you feel?"

I exploded. "None of your business, Mark! Oh give it a rest, will you?" I felt my face flush.

"Yeah. It hurts doesn't it! We all know that Danny asked Louisa to marry him and sounds like she said yes. But it didn't last, now did it?"

"No. Apparently not." I twitched at the feeling.

"Ah," Mark nodded. "Now Danny's off in London and there's Louisa at the pub, all by herself I reckon."

"Yes, she is, erh, she was tonight."

"Oh, so you noticed then, did you?" He laughed. "Well we now know that Portwenn's tin man doctor actually has a heart inside that metal chest of his." He added softly and tapped the left upper side of my chest.

I shrugged him off. "Mark, are you making fun of me? Because if you are…"

He held up his hands. "Not making fun, Doc. Just pointing out..."

"Oh let it go! I get it, Mark!"

"Do you? I wonder? So, what _you_ gonna do, Doc?" He patted the jacket pocket. "I've got a letter. What have you got?"

"Yeah - a letter." I said with sarcasm. "I hope it's what you want, Mark."

Mark tapped his pocket again. "Yeah, Doc. Me too." He turned to go. "Thanks for the wine; I needed it."

I nodded. "Glad I could help."

Mark looked back and smiled. "And by the way - you and Louisa – you're not horses either."

The kitchen door swung shut behind Portwenn's policeman just as I reached out and put my fingers gently on the kitchen table.

"Yeah. Not horses. Right." I said quietly.

I held my hand on the table where Louisa had sat when I told her I loved her.


	7. Chapter 7

Illness

The next two days I was quite busy, so didn't see Mark Mylow. I was absolutely slammed by a massive outbreak of coughing, sneezing, and general malaise which struck Portwenn like a hurricane. I was in my surgery getting sneezed on by Bert Large.

Bert reared his head back and let fly. "Achoo!" He sniffed. "Sorry, Doc. I guess I just sprayed my germs all over you."

I sneered. "No, you missed a spot."

Bert sneezed again.

I looked at my suit jacket and swore I could actually see the droplets burrow into the cloth. "Thank you, Bert! For heaven's sake, can't you cover your mouth?" I reared back and sneered at the beefy plumber. "Didn't you ever learn the basics of hygiene?"

"Sorry, Doc. That one got away from me." He sniffed and coughed spraying more sputum and who knows what over me, as I examined his throat.

"I don't see any major inflammation. No tonsils," I observed.

"Yeah, they was whipped out when I was about seven or so. I got really sick, the whole town did, and they practically lined up all the kids and, assembly line style, and yanked them out." He sighed. "I remember loads of ice cream, though."

"Yes." I palpated his throat, knowing that somewhere under the folds of fat were his submandibular glands. If they were swollen I certainly could not feel them. I sighed.

"Problem, Doc?" 

"No, Nothing that a fifteen hundred calorie a day diet wouldn't cure."

"Hm… not sure I could eat that many a day, Doc."

"Calories?"

"Yeah. Aren't those them little filled pastries?"

I started to bristle but stopped when I saw him smiling at me. "No. You're a real comic."

"Thankee, Doc. Now, what about this here cold?"

"Yes… plenty of fluids, healthy foods, and rest. Paracetamols if you feel feverish. You may also use an over-the-counter decongestant if you wish. Mrs. Tishell has plenty I am sure."

He glared at me. "That's all? No antibiotics?"

"No. This is a cold. Colds are caused by viruses. Antibiotics are only effective against bacteria."

Bert stood and his face grew dark. "So you're tellin' me I have to get better on my own?"

"Yes."

Bert stood over my desk. "Thanks a lot Doc. For nothing!"

"You're welcome." I said to Bert's retreating back. He left the door open, and I could hear coughing and sneezing from the waiting area. "Next patient!"

Pauline wandered in wearing another of her fantastic outfits. This one ran strongly to purples and oranges and she must have had a kilo of plastic necklaces around her neck. She dropped a stack of patient record cards on my desk.

"Pauline, one at a time. How many times have I told you?"

"Doc, the way they're stacked up out there I might as well bring them all in!"

"Wonderful. Next patient!" I rose and washed my hands as another hacking, coughing Portwenn resident came in to surgery.

Pauline pulled a mask from somewhere and covered her mouth as she skirted Mr. Campbell as he shuffled in spraying infectious effusions. Smart girl.

"Have a seat," I said to the patient who coughed and cleared his throat.

"Now, Doc," Mr. Campbell started, "Achoo!" and finished. "About this here cold…"

I sighed, "Yes?"

Near the end of the day, my throat felt scratchy, my nose was starting to prickle, and I felt a general ache that could only mean one thing – that my generous patients had shared their viruses with me. My only break today in surgery from the cough and cold brigade was Mrs. Holcombe who had returned late in the afternoon, not with her aching elbow, but this time with a sore shoulder from dragging a ladder about the exterior of her house.

I examined her shoulder, which she was holding at a strange angle. "And you were lifting a ladder?"

"No," the prim little lady replied. "I had finished with it and was carrying the ladder back to the shed."

"So how long is this ladder?"

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps twenty feet."

I looked at her slender frame. "You were twenty feet in the air?"

"Well, not quite. Maybe fifteen, the ladder was on an angle, you know. Those tall front windows at my house…"

I rotated her arm up and about and she winced. Ah, I could feel a slight click at extreme angles of motion. "Mrs. Holcombe, it seems to me that you have strained your shoulder ligaments." I released her arm and picked up the patient card. "Says here you are over eighty years of age."

"Yes," she sat there bright eyed looking at me. "What has my age got to do with anything? I'm generally healthy, I eat reasonably, take long walks, and go to church every Sunday. And my mother and father both lived to be almost ninety."

"Yes, well it might be time for you to modify your activities. At least until the shoulder and elbow heal." 

The lady glared at me. "We'll see."

From the way she answered me I knew she'd not listen one bit to medical advice. "A sling, plus a mild analgesic… and rest of course."

"I said, we'll see, Doctor!"

"Yeah." Typical patient. "One thing, Mrs. Holcombe. How were you able to erect this twenty foot ladder?"

"Oh, I called that nice policeman, PC Mylow. I just called dispatch and said I wanted him. He shows up right quick too, every time I call."

"Yes, I see." I needed to talk to Mark about helping little ladies work hard at breaking their barmy necks.

"And another thing," she went on. "We had the nicest chat and a cuppa. PC Mylow was quite interested in me telling him about my late Alfred."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I told him how Alfred had been a brawler and a boozer in his day. He'd come home all broken up; it was the drink you see. Said he couldn't stop it." She made a grim face. "But I made him stop! I said that I had every intention of spending the afterlife in Heaven, and if he wanted to be there with me, then he had better change his ways. And he did. Oh, it took quite a few years before he gave up his pints. But he did change." The prim little lady sighed. "He's been dead now almost twenty years and I look forward to seeing him some day." Her face glowed. "You see, Doctor, people can change."

"Yes, people can change."

She laughed. "That's the very thing that Mr. Mylow said as he walked to his police Rover. Kept repeating it. 'People can change' he said."

"I see."

"Do you? Now what about this silly sling you want to harness me with?" she said as she smiled sweetly.

Then I sneezed.


	8. Chapter 8

Germs

I was leaving the chemist with Mrs. Tishell's entreaties ringing in my ears. "Oh, and Doctor, make sure you drink plenty of fluids! Best when you have a cold!"

My patient's viruses had done their work and I now had a full blown upper respiratory infection, so off to the chemist to buy a decongestant spray, my advice to Bert large falling back on myself. I was only too glad to escape from the pharmacy, where Sally Tishell got all mushy when I was around.

The local chemist was insufferable with her offers of tea, scones, biscuits, or a nice sit-down to discuss the latest British Medical Journal articles on the use of _Opiates for Pain Relief of Herniated Spinal Discs_. Mrs. Tishell was always so pushy about these planned meetings, none of which I ever attended.

And now with a cold, for all I knew the silly woman would be knitting a sweater for me! I slumped against the white-washed wall outside to have a good sneeze into a facial tissue when I heard a soft voice at my side.

"Have a cold, Martin? Oh dear." It was Louisa Glasson.

"Yes," I snuffled.

"There's been quite a lot of that at the school."

"And the surgery. Achoo!" I wiped my nose. "Best stay back."

"Ok. If you say so."

Now why would she say that? "Right."

There we stood for a few seconds. She was wearing that reddish sweater top thing I've seen before. She looked nice. "Are you… going to the chemist?"

"Yes. Need some mouthwash."

"Ah. Dental hygiene is important."

"So you've told me."

"Yes." I could only stand there looking at her beautiful face, blue eyes meeting mine calmly. "Is there something… you wanted to erh, say?"

"Well," she cleared her throat. "I was wondering, if you might come by the school soon, doesn't have to be today of course, and talk to my teachers about infectious disease and so on. Don't want to be spreading too many colds through Portwenn Primary."

"No. I'll check my schedule. Is that all?"

She looked around the empty street and then back to me. "I did talk to Mark Mylow the other day in the grocer. He told me he got a letter from Julie Mitchell, or Emma Lewis, whoever." She said this quietly.

"Yes, I know. He showed it to me as well."

"But he's not read it. Poor Mark. But he's quite excited about it."

"Yes. Two days after he got it and he's not read it yet? Interesting."

"I thought so too."

There we stood, but I sensed there was more. "So… best be getting back to surgery."

"Of course. And we didn't finish our little _talk_, now did we?"

I supposed she was referring to our aborted tête-à-tête in the surgery two weeks ago. "No. Waking up on my kitchen floor…"

"Martin! I meant our talk in the pub. You got drenched…"

"Oh, yes that."

She looked at me with a level stare. "Well…" then her eyes fell. "Bye."

"Goodbye," I said as she brushed past me into the chemist. "I wondered if…" But she was gone. There was a whiff of perfume in her wake. Sort of a flowery scent, hints of plumeria, raspberries, and something else. I shook my head to clear it.

"Doc! Hey Doc!" PC Mylow pulled up in his Rover.

"Mark!"

"You got a minute, Doc?"

"Yes. Just heading back to the surgery."

"Hop in! I'll drive you."

I climbed into the Rover and closed the door, pulling the seatbelt tight. Mylow dropped the thing into gear and we went up to the surgery.

"You coming inside?" I asked. "I have a cold, so stay well back."

He smiled and held up a bottle. "Been taking my vitamins, Doc. Lot's of vitamin C, B12, D, all that. That should hold those germs off!"

"The same vitamins you were taking… before."

"Yeah, the _Big Boy_ thing." He laughed. "Most expensive vitamins I ever bought, I think!"

"Yes, well come inside the surgery. Pauline is off to lunch, so we have privacy. That is… if this is a medical matter."

Mark smiled. "Not quite, Doc."

"Right." I unlocked the door, and the large gray mutt that hounds me so shot around the corner and tried to enter. "Back! Shoo!" I yelled. The dog backed up and gave me a look.

Mylow petted the thing. "Do we like the Doc?" he said in a high pitched voice.

"Mark! Don't encourage this filthy animal!"

He inhaled deeply near the dog. "He's not dirty! Just smells like a dog."

"Yes." I curled my lip. "All the same… git!" The dog shot away.

Mylow shook his head at me. "You know Doc; he is a friendly animal…"

I held up my hand. "That dog is no friend of mine, nor do I want him to be! Come into the surgery. I need to … erh," I held up the wadded tissue in my hand. "Wash up."

"Sure, Doc."

I washed my hands and used plenty of antibacterial soap in the process. Perhaps I could leave some of the viruses in the sink, but they are persistent. I dried my hands and went to my desk.

"Sit, Mark. Now what's on your mind?"

He sat in the visitors chair and pulled out a thick envelope. I could see it had been opened. "This," he said.

"Ah." He was holding the envelope he'd shown me, brought back from Newquay.

Mark looked around the room. "You know Doc. My whole life, pretty much, has been round these parts. Even my police training was in Falmouth, right in Cornwall. Never traveled much. Only been to London three times and to Birmingham once."

"Mark, unless this is a travelogue, why have you wanted to speak to me?"

He sighed. "Well, just sayin' I don't know a whole lot about some things."

Obviously. "Yes."

He cleared his throat. "This letter, it _is_ from Julie."

"You mean Emma Lewis."

"No. Doc, she signed it Julie."

"Oh. So unless she has a personality disorder, she may be…"

"Yes, trying to be the person she was here in Portwenn. The one… when she was with me."

"Ah." I sighed. "Well, what does she want?"

He looked around the room and his voice fell. "She's asked me to go away with her." Then he sat up straight and peered into my face full on. "Doc! And worst of all – I'm still in love - love sick over her!"


	9. Chapter 9

Lovers

"Oh." I looked at Mark Mylow and he had the oddest expression on his face. Somehow his mouth was smiling, but his eyes looked sad and strained; a look of those who are tortured by love.

Love; what do I know about love? Damn little.

I know that my mother never loved me and my father was always disappointed in me. They both abused me. I could never decide who'd shove me under the stairs and lock the cabinet door - both of them likely. They could be damned as far as I was concerned.

Danny Steele thought that Louisa loved him, and perhaps she did, for a time. But when the chips were down he chose a juicy job in London over Louisa. How does that make our Miss Glasson feel? Rotten I'd expect.

And there's Roger Fenn and Maureen Treacy, so old for child bearing yet there they are with a family, twins no less, well on the way. Love? Yes. They were absolutely ecstatic about the event.

Pauline Lamb and Al Large. Those two. Pauline extravagant and Al quiet and thoughtful – bashful even. Yet there was something about those two. They weren't quit opposites, but they didn't quite fit either. But they seemed to be happy.

I thought of Aunty Joan. Yes, no doubt Joan loved me and how she could given the terrible way I could act about her at times I did not know. Rude, loutish I am – yet Joan is faithful to the core. That's my Aunty Joan. How many times I'd wished that she would have been my mother and Uncle Phil my father. Love? Yes… must be.

I sighed at Mark Mylow sitting there looking gob smacked, like he's had a religious vision, or a fit, same thing to my mind. A good shot of Thorazine or other anti-psychotic drug might make him distinguish between the real and the unreal.

The Real: Emma Lewis was a credit card and identity thief. Who knows how much money she had stolen? And if her plan to tell Mark that her baby was his had worked, he'd be none the wiser. But she came across a Salvation Army man named Graham Orchard and a certain GP. As well as a suitor who was sterile.

The Unreal: Mark Mylow loved a construct, a fake, named Julie Mitchell. A bleached blonde who, I suppose, thought she could submerge herself under his wing, under the police radar as it were. That façade has crumbled like an ancient statue of Ozymandias. And Mark somehow still thinks that he and his criminal woman would be a match.

Mark sat there looking stunned and I expected his vacant gaze to be joined by a trail of drool. He and Emma, or Julie, must both be barmy, daft, Bodmin.

Yet, didn't I once love Edith Montgomery in a similar way? And… she chose to take off to Canada, leaving me behind. I knew very well how Louisa must have felt when Danny left. Very well.

And then, there's Louisa Glasson. The pirate girl teacher. The one that I said that I loved. The one that I _do_ love. And she said she loved me.

Now if I could only say that to her again at just the right time, in the right place, without benefit, or deficit, of alcohol. But things and people keep getting in the way. Yet I'd walk through a desert of burning sand barefoot for a week with no water to get a single glimpse of her. Wouldn't I?

I cleared my dry and raspy throat. "Love sick, you said Mark?"

"Yes, Doc. I'm love sick. Understand?" he said grinning ear to ear.

"Yeah."


	10. Chapter 10

Letters

"So what's uhm… in her letter?"

"You want to read it?"

"No, not really."

"Yup. I thought so. Doc, I can't that say that I want to read it either. I mean what if she was telling me 'it's been nice Chuck, see you around?' Or she might be telling me off good and proper, for turning her in."

"Did you?"

Mark looked at the floor. "No. Not really. I did write up that she had been seen in the area. Sent that off." He looked up me grimly then. "I didn't say that, I… erh, we…"

"Of course not." I sniffed. "Excuse me." Another tissue got used and binned. "Sorry."

Mark scooted the chair back fifteen centimeters or so. "Yeah."

"Mark, why did you come up here today? Pauline will be back in around twenty five minutes, so if you want real privacy, you should go by then. And I need to eat something."

"Doc, I just mean," he sighed, "it's not like I can go down the Crab and Lobster and banter this about, now can I?"

"No. I'd expect not."

"Doc, I don't know if you've noticed but it's not like I have a whole of friends in the village, being the policeman and all I can't very well get too close to people. Sort of like you."

"Thanks," I sneered. "So nice that my solitary nature is respected!"

"Now, Doc, don't get mad. I don't mean it that way! I mean that you have to be a bit apart from people. They talk to you and you can't then go blathering it about, is all. Confidential, like. Secrets."

"Right." If Mark only knew the secrets I get to keep in this community of 966 backwards, ill begotten villagers. Who is boffing who and who I've had to treat for sexually transmitted diseases, who is under a psychiatrist's care for severe depression or mania, who has untreated hernias and is afraid of surgery, and who has odd sexual preferences that cause them to be injured in strange ways.

Yes secrets. Secrets of the confessional, the surgery, the exam couch. Even the secrets that are my own; the ones I dare not even think of or I'd go stark barking Bodmin. I keep that mental compartment firmly closed, bolted, and barred.

"Mark. You can continue to beat about the bush, or you can tell me something that I may help you with. Otherwise…" I checked my watch. "I need lunch."

"Right. Well then, I think I'll have to let you read this." He stood and dropped the much discussed but little exposed envelope onto my desk. "I'll be back some time tomorrow so you can read it."

He left the surgery and the exam door closed. I shook my head. Love letters! I shook my head, but I slipped it into my pocket and then went to the kitchen to prepare soup.

The lobster bisque was heating nicely so with heavy heart took the envelope out and extracted several pages covered with looping purple ink. Another affectation of romantic writers. Why can't ink be blue or black? I'll never understand.

Four pages, two sides each. The first three pages were what I'd expect. Protestations of innocence, excuses for past misdeeds, obfuscations of happenings, dates, and places or at least so I perceived them to be. I continued to stir the soup as I flipped through the occasional misspellings and poor sentence structure. But I reminded myself that Emma had left home while a teenager, so her written language skills were not that perfect.

On page four it got more serious. She had written:

_Marky, I didn't do any of those things to really hurt anyone, I've never taken a great deal of money along the way. And there have been times that I have had real jobs in offices and stores, and such._

_My home life was really bad. For all that mum wanted to see me as she died, she was still the nasty, grasping piece of work she always has been. And she didn't really want to see me. It was just another way that she could have power over me, even if it was for the last time._

_Mum had an awful lot of boyfriends about, after dad left when I was seven. And about the time that I started to turn from a gawky kid into a girl, well that's when I had to leave. There were nights I'd have to jam a chair under my door to keep night visitors out. Mum would be drugged up, and her latest friend would get ideas about visiting the daughter to 'check on her' - you know._

_So I left home. I was fourteen. I won't tell you what I had to do to get on…_

I sighed. Same old tale of drug and sexual abuse, plus forgotten and ill-used children. The bisque wasn't quite ready.

_Some time after I'd gone through about four names, jobs, and towns, I wanted to get out of it. So I looked for a little place I could settle down. I found Portwenn after I heard a radio piece about the local men's singers, how they'd placed in some regional sing-thing._

_First day here there you were. I'll admit that my heart took a flip when the local PC was so nice, and nice looking too. And things went from there._

_I really thought that I could go straight. You're so straight – figured I could too. And I did like you straight off. And that feeling – well you knew. It grew on me._

_As I write this I'm feeling kicks from my baby. The one that I tried to get you to think was yours. It's not, you know that, thanks to a number of things. But she will need a dad (it's a girl). But – I was thinking that if you were willing…_

I sighed as I read her self-serving rubbish. An odor of scorching started to reach my nose. "Damn it!" My soup was ruined – a brown layer at the bottom of the pot. I dumped the ruined soup into the ferns out the door and dropped the pot into the sink followed by plenty of water and soap.

_need a dad (it's a girl). But – I was thinking that if you were willing…_

_we could start again. You and me, Marky. Somewhere else. Where no one will care who I used to be. That is if you won't care who I used to be._

_Love,_

_Julie _

_(If you want to call me Emma, you can do that, but you knew me as __Julie__ – and __Julie__ is who I wish to be – for you.)_

I was munching on crackers when Pauline came back yelling from the waiting room.

"Doc! I'm back!" She clumped into my kitchen. "Ugh! What a stink!" She held her freckled nose.

"Burned the soup."

"Really," she looked amazed. "Doc Martin can't cook soup?"

"Yes, no, shut up!" I snarled.

She laughed and her clinking necklaces and bracelets made a racket as she clomped back to her desk.

Then my eyes fell to the last part of the letter, which was dashed off in a thick black pen.

**I was going to give you this letter in person, but you were out, so I dashed off a note on a postcard and jammed it under your front door. No one saw me in the village.**

**I'm living in Newquay, obviously, and thought I'd have the guts to face you. I was just round the corner at the Aquarium, but I lost my nerve. When you were inside I put this on your car. **

**CALL ME? Cell : 173-313 2426**

So here was Mark's invitation. Would he go for it?


	11. Chapter 11

Care

I suffered along with my cold another day and it started to ease, as they usually do. The surgery wasn't quite as busy as it had been, likely because most of Portwenn was down with this virus.

Pauline Lamb had managed to take precautions and she was germ free so far. She sat there slurping down orange juice like she had a massive bout of low blood sugar, claiming that vitamins and orange juice was helping. "Doc," she said as I sneered at her ministrations, "I read it in this magazine that…"

"Rubbish!"

"But it said that these things can help the immune system..."

"What rot!" I went on as I pulled a file from the cabinet. "If these articles had a shred of science behind them, they'd never be in print!"

Pauline rose and shoved the magazine under my nose. "This is it! Is this rubbish?"

I looked at the glossy thing. It was the _BMJ_, the _British Medical Journal_. "Oh…"

She chuckled. "Not rubbish now, right?" She went on laughing. "Your face - it was perfect! When you saw it was the _BMJ_!"

I could only glare at her, and was preparing to yell, when the door opened and a patient came in. It was Louisa Glasson.

"Louisa!" I exclaimed,

"Hello Martin – Pauline," she said indistinctly.

"Louisa is your first patient today, Doc!"

"Yes. Well, then go through."

Pauline smiled at me. "I snuck her in first thing; says she's not feeling well."

I followed her into surgery and admired her walk, her dress, her hair, her… ahem. She sat and looked at me as I took my place behind the desk.

"Miss Glasson, erh, how can I help you?" More important, how could she help me?

"Doctor Ellingham," she started and I knew this was strictly a professional call. "I've come down with this cold, but I feel rather feverish, and my throat, is quite red and sore."

I took her temperature with the tympanic thermometer. It was almost 39 C. "A bit over normal."

"I told you I felt feverish, Martin!"

"Other symptoms?"

"Been feeling a bit off, some nausea this morning, and a headache to beat the band."

"Yes."

"It seems like strep throat to me. We've had a few students…"

"Let me be the judge of that." I next plied flashlight and tongue depressor, seated on my examination stool, getting quite near that lovely face, eyes, lips…neck. The back of her throat was inflamed, as she'd said. "Yes, I can see - what's that?" The telltale spots on her tonsils were apparent.

I binned the depressor and wheeled myself backwards. I unpacked a sterile swab. "Open." I poked around and took a good sample of secretions. The swab went onto an OfficeMed strip and I noted the time.

"Martin?"

I held up my hand.

"Martin? What is it?"

I held up my hand again. "Shush." She did.

A telltale ring appeared on the strip in three minutes. "Yes, streptococcal pharyngitis. You have whitish spots on your tonsils and elevated temperature. This test confirms it. Strep throat, as you call it." I tossed the test and swab, washed my hands thoroughly then went to the desk and started writing. "Allergic to amoxicillin?"

"No."

"I'm giving you a ten day course of Amoxicillin – twice a day. Drink plenty of liquids, gargle with warm salt water if that helps, and you can take paracetamols for discomfort. Mrs. Tishell also has any number of lozenges for throat discomfort."

"And work?''

I nodded. "You should take a few days off. Perhaps four or five, or until your energy returns, the antibiotics take affect and your throat stops hurting."

"Right. That it?"

"Yes. Here is your scrip."

She took the prescription. "Martin, thanks for seeing me…"

"Just doing my job."

"Alright, if you say so."

"I just did."

"Yes, you did." She stood there looking brilliant to my eyes. "Better be off, then."

"I'll check in on you in a day or so; just to make sure the antibiotics are working."

"Oh, ok."

Damn, did I just say that? "And Louisa?"

She'd walked to the door. "Yes?" Her blue eyes looked guarded.

"I'm glad I could take care of you, in surgery, I mean."

She smiled a bit at that. "Yes, me too."


	12. Chapter 12

Giddy

The morning rushed on. A sprained ankle wobbled in, followed by vertigo with vomiting, a case of hypothyroidism who needed his T4 levels checked, a fitness for work exam from Delabole, a host of others, and finally Mark Mylow, who barged in saying. "Just a minute, if I could, Doc?"

He sat in front of my desk sipping tea, which he'd coaxed from Pauline. And he was all smiles.

"What can I do for you, Mark? And quickly?"

"Well Doc, I called," his voice lowered, "you know who."

"Yes. Here's the erh…" I pulled Julie's letter back in the envelope out of my desk and handed it to him. He made it disappear into a trousers pocket.

"You read it, Doc?"

"Yup."

"What you think?"

"Not for me to say." I was uncomfortable with this subject and I suppose it showed.

Mark frowned. "You think she's not good enough for me?"

"No."

"Then I must not be good enough for her!" He was getting agitated.

"That's not what I said, Mark. No need to be - rude."

He chuckled. "That's pretty funny, doc, you tellin' me that I'm rude!"

"Well, erh…"

He laughed. "Gotcha, Doc!" Mark slapped a hand on his leg. "But I did call her."

I stared at him without answering.

"Don't you want to know what she said?" he asked.

"No," I really didn't. "It is your business and I feel that… best if you… don't tell me…"

"Doc! I have to talk to somebody, don't I? Who else can I talk to in Portwenn, unless they are deaf?"

I braced myself for a long winded conversation. "No one."

"See? I was right. Just you." He winked. "So I called her and she answered. It wasn't much of a call, really. Guess I expected more."

"Oh." I tried not to let my lip curl, knowing Mark Mylow as I did, and my best guess about where this conversation was heading. "Not all hearts and flowers?" I asked.

That made him laugh. "No. I'm going to meet her, somewhere - to talk. The two of us. You see…"

I held up my hand and he slowed to a stop. "Mark. What you do is strictly your business. Not mine. Now if you don't mind I have patients to see." I pushed back my chair and stood. "Go." I pointed to the door.

He stood as well and his face looked disappointed. "Just like that? Throw me out?"

"PC Mylow, you are on duty, as am I. These are my patient visiting hours, and if I'm not mistaken you are not on the schedule today, nor is this an emergency!" I pointed to the door again.

He slunk away, but whirled at the door. "But, you're all curious - like to know - right?"

"NO!"

Without a word he left, the door open in his wake.

"What's Mark all upset about, Doc?" asked Pauline as she brought in the next patient record card.

"Nothing. Don't know. Erh, Pauline! Get back to work!"

She gave me a knowing look. "It's about that Julie, ain't it?"

"Can't say."

"Doc, when he come in here he was all giddy - practically skipped across the room, didn't he? I'll bet you burst his bubble."

"Pauline, out! Send in the next patient."

"Yeah, that's all you care about is patients." she clumped off.

"Pauline, that's not true." I said.

"Oh, really? Well you was very happy looking when you saw Louisa Glasson the other morning. Seems to me that you was giddy too!" Then she left my exam room.

I rocked back in my desk chair. Was it that obvious?


	13. Chapter 13

Meetings

Having completed my morning duties and Pauline had dashed off to the Large Restaurant to see Al Large and have to have her lunch, I went to the fishmonger to buy my dinner. The monkfish looked nice, and it was being wrapped up when Mylow slunk into view.

I tried not to react, but when he closed to next to my elbow I had to acknowledge his presence. "Mark."

"Doc," he responded.

"Buying fish."

"Yup." I said and then "Thank you," to Mr. Campbell.

"Now, Doc – you remember not to overbroil this one," the fishmonger told me. "You complained the last one was old and dry…"

"Yes, yes," I cut him off.

He laughed. "Even the mighty Doctor Ellingham can make a mistake, right?"

Mylow was eating this up. "Yeah, Doc. Remember, right?"

Caught between the two I could only take the fish and my bank card and escape the shop. I turned and stalked away, but Mylow stayed close.

"Doc, you're right you know. I was… out of line."

"Ok." I kept walking but Mark stopped.

"Doc, really!" he called, "I've been thinking about what you said. And you're right – quite correct. I apologize."

That stopped me. I turned to him. "Oh?"

"Yes." He looked away and squinted into the bright sunlight. "So, I was thinking, sort of a way to make things up to you, I could take you to dinner. My treat."

"Really? That would be very, erh, nice… but," I held up the package of fish. "I have other plans."

He mulled that over. "Well, yeah, I figured you'd say no. But, this is embarrassing - I need your help, Doc."

"Oh? Doing what?"

He looked away. "I really need a lift into Wadebridge. Tonight."

"Now you want me to be a bloody taxi driver?"

"No, Doc. Please? I just need a lift. That's all."

"Mark! Just get a taxi here in the village."

He shook his head. "Can't do that Doctor. I don't, uhm, can't let anyone to know where I'm off to."

"Oh?"

"You know how the gossip grapevine works here! One tells another, and before you know it," he snapped his fingers. "The Vicar's posting it on the church announcement board!"

"And the reason for this expedition, Mark?" I knew before he opened his mouth. The look on his face - one of abject adoration. "You're going to…"

"I just have to – go meet Julie, Doc." His voice broke.

What was the word that Pauline used? Giddy, that was it. Giddy didn't quite fit. No, more like… I searched for the word. One look at Mylow's quivering lips and screwed-up eyes told me what I was searching for. The word was desperation.


	14. Chapter 14

A Lift

"So, Doc," nattered on Mylow. "You ever think about traveling?"

"No, I haven't." I raised my voice over the noise of air rushing over my Lexus.

"Not even Rome, or Pompeii where Elaine went with her Greg?"

"Nope."

"Maybe Hawaii or even Poland?"

"No."

"How about Greece. I hear Greece is really nice. Or maybe Kenya. Or even Uganda?"

"No!"

"Then the United States or Canada?"

"NO! Mark! Shut up!" He did and quiet filled the car. We rode for a few minutes in blessed silence until Mylow turned on the radio.

Radio Portwenn's Caroline Bosman was speaking. "So with the decline of many working trades, the United Kingdom finds itself importing people with those skills and from far away too. I've read there's a great trade in dentists from Egypt, nurses from Kenya, electricians from Jamaica, and even plumbers from Poland to name just a few. This is open microphone hour and at 106.1 we want to hear from you!"

I reached over and snapped it off.

"What's the matter Doc? Don't you want to listen to Caroline?"

"No." I'd treated Caroline for keto-acidosis, saved the woman's life, but I still found her insufferable. "The woman has the manners of a crocodile when it comes to dealing with her."

"Well, you did save her life – diabetes and all that."

"Yes, I did. So, Mark, why all this thought about travel?"

He leaned back in the seat, his red nylon windbreaker squeaking on the leather. "Just expanding my mind – and my horizons Doc. By the way, thanks for the lift."

"Yeah." I looked at his khakis, cotton shirt, and jacket. "You look like you're going yachting, Mark. Planning on sailing away, are you?" I sneered.

"Well I couldn't very well wear my uniform, could I? Don't want to give Julie the wrong idea."

"What's that Mark? That you are a policeman?" I wanted to say more but he interrupted my train of thought.

"Doc! No. I want her to feel comfortable. So I'm in mufti."

"Right. Whatever you say." I said, but I thought to myself that Mark was delusional if he thought a cotton shirt and khakis were going to be a life changing experience for Julie or Emma.

As I thought about Julie Mitchell or Emma Lewis again, I thought about how the woman was some sort of chameleon. One of those changeable lizards; quite able to be one thing to one person and entirely different to another.

We were at the cross roads, where the main road went across the moor to Wadebridge. Mark told me we were going to a quiet little pub near the train station. He'd meet Julie there for their talk. I slowed the Lexus to turn, and my Aunt Joan, turned past us and she waved.

"God, Doc! That was Joan Norton! She saw us!"

"Mark, don't panic. She just waved. That's all."

Mark was sliding downward in the seat as if to hide.

"Mark, for God's sake would you please sit up! Don't act the fool."

But seeing Aunty Joan made me realize that I was a chameleon as well. With Aunt Joan I spoke my mind and so did she, but we were cordial in the Ellingham way, meaning we got on each other's nerves and yelled. Such behavior did not stand me in good stead with most of Portwenn. In fact, I was certain, they absolutely hated me on sight, and the only thing that brought them to my surgery was their dire need. And why they came was beyond me as they almost never considered for a moment to follow my medical instructions.

And yet, for a huge number of cases in the last few days, they came by the droves to be seen – for colds of all things. Even Louisa came, but that was a clear case of strep throat. In fact I need to see her tomorrow, as I said I would.

This is where my own internal chameleon started to change, preparing and rehearsing what I would say when she opened her door. She'd stand there, with hair pulled into a slick pony tail, face nicely made up, eyes and teeth shining. And she'd be wearing a really excellent nightgown and dressing gown, her skin smooth and… I stopped myself short on this line of thinking.

I looked at Mark who was finally sitting up again. He had a faint smile on his lips and was now humming some tune. I didn't recognize it. He caught me looking at him.

"Just a little music, Doc. Sorry."

"No, that's… quite all right."

So with an off key melody hummed by a slightly Bodmin constable, I returned to my woolgathering over Louisa Glasson. At least Mark knew where he was going, or believed he did. For all his enthusiastic blather about the woman he continued to call Julie, he was going for it. I glanced at him again. Now he was positively smiling as we drove over the moor.

The steering wheel was slick under my sweaty palms and my heart beat faster. Would it be possible to shed my lizard skin once and for all? I mentally shook my head. Unlikely that I could 'go for it.' But I did tell Louisa Glasson I loved her, even if it was the wine talking for me. So Mylow hummed as I dreamed.


	15. Chapter 15

Call

I knocked on the door and Louisa opened it slowly. "Oh, Martin, it's you."

My dream of a vision of loveliness burst like a bubble as I looked at Louisa Glasson. Her face was pale, she had sleep buggers at the corners of her eyes, and her hair was undone, matted, and unwashed. Her dressing gown was wrinkled, the belt lopsided, and underneath she wore faded blue pyjamas and nothing on her slender feet.

I hefted my medical case and said. "I've come… as I said I would… to check on you."

"Oh, yes," she croaked in a hoarse voice. "Sorry. I forgot. Well, you're here, so come in. Don't mind the mess."

"Right." I followed her unsteady walk into the room. The mess was a sink of unwashed dishes, mail and papers piled on the table, and a rumpled blanket and pillows on the sofa.

She waved a hand about. "Just haven't felt up to much of anything." She slumped onto the couch and wrapped in the blanket. "So you have come to see me."

"Yes. I said I would."

"Fine." She tried to smile. "Sorry I'm not at my best."

I opened my case and took out the thermometer and stuck it in her ear. I peered at the LCD readout. "One quarter degree over normal." I examined her throat. "Still slightly inflamed. Tonsils getting better though." I held up the used depressor. "Where can I?"

"Kitchen." She held a hand to her throat. "Sorry, this sore throat is terrible."

"Yes. Tolerating the antibiotic?"

"Yes. Makes my wee smell funny though."

I binned the depressor in the kitchen. "Yes that's the excess drug being cleared from your system by your kidneys. Natural to smell it."

Louisa tried to smile. "Knew I get a medical lecture. That's ok, though." But her hand stayed at her throat.

"Been eating and drinking?"

"Soup, some crackers. About all."

I washed my hands at the sink and dried them. I picked up the kettle and shook it; it was empty. I filled it partway and put it on the cooker, set on Hi. I started poking into the cabinets. Dishes, cereal, tinned goods… "You have any honey?"

"In the left-hand cabinet, with the spices. Martin, what ever are you doing?"

I found the honey. It looked a bit old and crystallized but it would serve. I put it into a bowl of hot tap water to re-liquefy it, pulled out a mug and spoon. "Making tea. Good for the throat."

"Oh," she said. She leaned back and watched me as the kettle boiled, and tea was steeped.

I took the filled mug to the sofa and as she watched poured a goodly dollop of honey into it and stirred.

"Martin, sorry. I don't drink black tea."

"You will today. Here. Honey." I held out the mug as I knelt down.

She smiled and batted her lashes. "Why Martin, I do believe that is the first time you've called me honey!"

"Erh… good for the …throat," was all I could get out.

She reached out with both hands to take the mug and wrapped her hands about mine. "Martin, thank you."

Up this close I could see there were some dandruff flakes on her gown, lines about her mouth, likely due to the early stages of dehydration, but her lips looked – plump – well filled. I looked away. "Just… trying to help… a patient. That's all."

She slipped the mug away and took a sip. "This is good."

I knelt there by her side and she leaned forward to kiss my cheek. I threw up my hands. "NO! You're infectious!"

Her head reared back. "Oops. Sorry, didn't mean to…"

I stood quickly. "I'd better be going." I said. "Need anything else? You need to eat and drink. Wouldn't want this to develop into mononucleosis, which is possible. And mono, the 'kissing disease,' is quite communicable through saliva. So don't kiss anyone else. I mean erh - kiss NO one!"

Louisa looked up. "Alright then. Doctor's orders." She grinned.

That did not go as I had planned. "Yes, I'll just see myself out." I added quickly. "Keep up the tea, with... honey. Soothes the throat."

"I feel better already. Thanks Martin!"

"Sure." I walked to the door with my case.

"By the way, Martin? Did you find Mark Mylow the other day?"

"Yes. In fact I saw him last night." I answered and closed the door behind me before she could ask any more about Mark. Then I walked back to surgery and my next patient.


	16. Chapter 16

Smells Like Clean

I was staring into the armpit of Derrick Tweed, who was three years old. I held his arm straight overhead, prodding with the other hand. His father held the squirmy child in a virtual headlock while the boy screamed. I didn't see anything remarkable, other than finger nail scratches, but underneath, there was some sort of reddish cast to the skin.

"Is the mean old doctor bothering my cute little Derrick?" asked the father, a reed thin man, who'd been on public relief for the last three years.

The wrestling match had gone on for fifteen minutes and so far I'd examined the boy's groin, back of the knees, neck, and now armpits. "Mr. Tweed, I don't really see anything remarkable." But as I said this there was a strange smell coming to my nose - sort of a phenol odor.

"Doc, the boy just keeps scratchin' all the time! Poor little bugger he sometimes gets all stirred up and itchin' and then he cries all night!" Mr. Tweed said as he tried to hold the child still.

"Does he always struggle like this?" I asked in almost a shout over Derrick's screaming.

"NO! But the boy does have lungs, doesn't he! MY BROTHERS AND UNCLES AND DA WAS ALL SCREAMERS…" he nattered on for another minute or so my head buzzing from the noise and extraneous explanation. "MATTER OF FACT - I'M SORTA LOUD MESELF!"

"Let him go!" I told him and got no response. "LET THE CHILD GO!"

By now my patients in the waiting room were likely thinking I was amputating the kid's leg with a paper clip.

Mr. Tweed let go and little Derrick dashed across the room, hiding under my desk. I breathed deep and walked over. Looking under the desk I saw the kid stick his tongue out at me. I responded in kind and the boy laughed.

"What you think it is, Doc?" Mr. Tweed stood by the examination couch scratching his crotch and then an armpit.

"Not certain," I started. Looked like I had two patients. "Take off your shirt, Mr. Tweed."

"Wha?"

"Do it."

He did while Derrick sat under my desk playing with the tongue depressors he'd pilfered earlier. The father had similar scratches as well as the odor when I stuck my nose close.

"Doc? I come in 'cause Derrick is ailin' not me. And what in bloody hell are you doin' sniffin' and all? What kind of a doc are you?"

I sneered at him. "A good one. Now shut it." After another good lungful of unwashed armpit I had an answer. I walked to the desk and sat where Derrick now tried to climb into my lap. How in heaven's name can parents deal with children, I wondered? Screaming one moment - laughing the next.

"Mr. Tweed, please come sit and here," I pointed to the chair near the desk. Derrick managed to climb on me and planting a pudgy knee firmly into my groin proceeded to sit in my lap.

"Did he hurt ya Doc? Little bugger has a habit of doin' that very thing. He gets me about three times a week just like that – right in the knackers." He smiled. "But he is affectionate and all."

My head was now on my desk as I tried to suck air back into my lungs and suppress the sharp pain in my groin.

Mr. Tweed laughed. "Aye! I can tell he got you a good one!" the man went on. "Need help?"

"Take…" breath "your…" breath "child…" breath and swallow "now…" I managed to utter as I sat upright.

Derrick was extracted and held by his father. "What you think it is?" he scratched his groin.

I yawned to help air back into my lungs. Impact of even a three-year-old on ones testes have an amazing affect upon the pain centers. "Soap."

"Soap?"

"Yeah, soap. You and your child smell of phenol, also called carbolic acid. Have you been using carbolic soap?"

"Yah. You know doc, I ain't worked in quite a while, and they had this special on discount soap…"

"Stop using it." I looked straight at him. "Now."

"It's good stuff – makes you feel like you been to hospital. Clean and all. Tis the smell I guess."

"Mr. Tweed, you may remember that schools always used that soap. Every washroom had a bar by the sink. But since the 1970's it has been shown to cause skin irritation."

"Oh."

"I think you'll find that using soap with emollients – ones with cream components – the soap will not be as harsh and strip natural oils from your skin. That is what is causing the irritation."

"Oh. I see." He looked down at little Derrick who know appeared to be the best behaved child in the world. The boy stuck a handful of tongue depressors, which had been on the floor, into his mouth. "But, Doc! That soap smells like clean, you know?"

I shook my head and rued the day I taken this job in this backward village. There were a number of things I regretted, actually.

"Well, we'll be off then, Doc!" Tweed stood up. "Sorry about the, uhm…" he pointed below my waist.

I sighed. "Yeah, right. I always enjoy a good kick in the balls."

Derrick smiled at me as his father dragged him away.


	17. Chapter 17

Going

The whole day went like that. Bodily assault, vomit on my shoes, an unruly seven year old who objected at my examining his sprained wrist who responded with a punch in the nose, plenty of patients sneezing on me, and now this.

Mark Mylow barged into my surgery and closed the door. As he turned I could see he was all smiles with a spring in his step no less. I knew where this was going.

"Doc?" he began. "Guess what?"

I sighed wearily. Would these counseling sessions never end? "Do I have to? I don't play guessing games!"

"Yup. You have to," he replied bouncing from one foot to the next.

"Well, I see you are back from Wadebridge," I answered warily.

"Yes. There is that, Doc."

"There's more, I take it."

"Oh, yeah, there is – a lot more."

My lip curled. "Spare me the details."

"I'd better sit." He sat in front of my desk, put elbows on knees, leaned forward, and started whispering. "Doc, you see…"

I stopped him with a raised hand. "Now I will guess. You're taking up with Julie, or Emma, or who ever."

"Doc! You don't have to make it sound like she's an international criminal, now."

"Well, what do you want me to make her out to be, Mark? Hm? A pillar of society, a patron saint, or a member of the church knitting society? Because she's not."

Mark sighed and sat back up. "No. I'm not asking that. Look – Julie and I talked for hours and hours at that pub you dropped me off at."

"Well, I hope the bar bill wasn't too large," I said sarcastically.

He shook his head. "I'm just gonna ignore that now. Here's the deal…"

"Oh? What is the deal, Mark? I just can't see you…"

"See me what? Throwing my life away? Is that what you were going to say?"

"No." Not exactly, I thought.

"Julie told me that she has been to see a magistrate. She's going to make good on all the credit card debts she accumulated. A lot of it she can pay off from the money she kept. Seems a lot of what she bought, she'd then return and take the cash."

"Neat trick." I leaned back. "And what about the rest?"

He looked down a moment then up. "I'm going to help her. I've got a fair bit saved up."

I sighed. "So that might square some accounts. But what about - the rest? Legal matters; all that?"

"Doc. She _is_ pregnant. And there are court records going back to when she was a teenager. And there's…"

I stopped him. "A lot of… bad things."

"Yup." He wiped his eyes. "And she is sorry…"

"And you love her, anyway."

"Yeah, Doc! I love her! And I forgive her! I'll take her as she is. You know?"

I stood up, went around the desk, and stuck out my hand. "Well, Mark - good luck."

He took my hand and shook it. "Thanks Doc. Really appreciate everything you done for me."

"So where does this leave you?"

"There are some legal proceedings and all. But if she serves a short jail sentence…"

"They'll let her off."

"Yes. They will." Now I could see tears in his eyes. "And…"

I pursed my lips. "You'll be together."

"Yes. I love her Doc, and I don't care who she used to be or who the baby's father is! We'll start over, her and me. And we'll have a little girl!"

I cleared my throat. "And where will you go?"

"There's a minimum security jail in Bournemouth that has a program for people like her – pregnant I mean. So I'll…"

"Yeah. Go there." I looked hard at Mark Mylow. He wasn't giddy, or desperate, or even happy. He'd made a decision. He was going for it. Louisa said she admired this aspect of Mylow and in a way I did too.

Mark continued. "I've talked to the station chief there and they do have a short posting."

I leaned against the edge of my desk. "So when is this going to happen?"

Mark smiled. "Nearly right away. Next week, maybe."

"And you'll…"

"Follow along after."

"Right."

"And Doc, please…"

"Don't tell anyone? Me? Yeah. I'm good at keeping secrets." As I said this I knew it was true. I even held secrets from myself.

Mylow threw his arms around me and I reluctantly returned the embrace. "Thanks Doc. Doc Martin - my _one_ true friend. Even though you wouldn't be my best man."

Friend? I considered this for a moment. "Right." I pushed Mark away. "So then…"

"Yep. Have things to do. Better be off. Bye Doc!" He dashed away and the door swung shut before I could ask him not to help Mrs. Holcombe with ladders anymore.


	18. Chapter 18

A Bit Bodmin

The virus attack was abating and Portwenn was returning to normal - although it was hard to say just what was normal in this village of less than one thousand people.

Eddie Rix the fisherman was being treated for another 'accidental' injury, Stewart our local Forest Ranger, was still gadding about with Anthony his imaginary six-foot red squirrel in tow, children rode down the steep streets sitting on skateboards creating a great number of sprained wrists and ankles in surgery, while elderly women still climbed tall ladders to wash their windows.

Portwenn is always full of stories. Just at the time we really needed local law enforcement, due to Louisa's father Terry Glasson and his off-kilter accomplice Jonathon, Mark Mylow went away – and didn't actually tell anyone where.

I tried not to spend any time remembering that whole sordid episode, most of which I'd rather not recall, including a cranial trepanation at the bottom of a cliff with a power drill borrowed from Bert Large.

Pauline traipsed into surgery that morning wearing a grim look that matched her horrid green outfit. "Happy that Terry Glasson and Jonathan are gone? I was really glad to see that all get sorted."

Jonathon had tied up Pauline, Louisa, and me, primarily due to his mental illness, threatened Al with a shotgun, and interfered with my cliff side life saving effort, all the while he and Terry were involved in smuggling explosives for a safe cracking job.

I was writing a supplies needed list for the surgery as Pauline butted in. "Yes."

"We sure could have used PC Mylow just then, couldn't we?"

"Yes." Mark was gone during the entire fracas. The official reason was _on holiday._

"Yeah. Mark missed all the fun, didn't he? And the way Jonathan was waving that shotgun about, tying us up, and all – sending poor Al to pick up that bag…"

"Pauline!" I held up a hand to stop a recitation of the entire affair. "I was there. I remember! Is there anything about the surgery schedule that you wish to discuss?"

"No. But," she went on, "I heard that Mark Mylow's gone off to Hawaii - and all alone too. How depressing! Poor sod."

I handed her my list. "Please order these items."

"But what about Mark?" She stood over me in her ridiculous outfit caring not a bit about the necessary office work I needed her to do. "Hadn't you heard he's gone?"

"No." This was not a true statement. "Send in the first patient."

"You're not concerned, then, Doc?"

"No. First patient, please!" I sang out.

Pauline marched out as Miss Grylls limped in, the tendons in an ankle likely injured from another very long cliff walk ramble, as she was known to take. Thus began another fun-filled Portwenn surgery day.

I examined her swollen extremity. "How many miles is it this time?"

"Well, doctor, you know I do like to get out and about, and you know my EDS does give me a bit of trouble." She smiled. "But I do like to stay active."

Moira Grylls was a young woman with a genetic disorder that resulted in ultra-extensible tendons, as well as other tissues. Ehlers-Danlos syndrome is not common, but in her case her major complaint was her weakened major joints.

"Yes. How far did you ramble this time?"

"Well, there was this set of birds I was watching…"

"Were they Choughs?" I asked referring to the rare birds the Colonel found nesting on the cliffs.

"Oh no. They was long gone by the time I heard about them. Strange the way they just disappeared, isn't it?"

I cleared my throat. The Chough birds had evaporated in an explosive cloud, when someone unknowingly dropped an explosive filled bag on top of them. It was a matter I did not want to discuss. I cleared my throat and spoke. "About your ankle, then?" I interrupted her and proceeded with my examination. "Haven't I told you to wear your support braces?"

"Doctor, they hurt when I wear my new trainers."

I sighed. "Yes." Another patient unwilling or unable to follow instructions. Such is the GP's fun-filled life in Portwenn.

This was also the first day I met Joe Penhale, our new Police Constable, who had his own issues. I'd known the man all of an hour and he was casting aspersions about his constable predecessor. As well as peaking my curiosity as to why he seemed to fall asleep, and frequently.

Joe had stood outside my surgery and was talking about Mylow. "I heard, Doctor, that he's taking a career break. Last I heard he was training as a plumber in Poland!" Joe snickered.

"Yes." I pushed past him to the surgery and began the surgery day.

So far I'd heard three pronouncements on Mark's whereabouts.

According to Bert, he'd heard last week that Mylow was on holiday, but the word he actually used was _away_.

Pauline Lamb today claimed that Mark was in _Hawaii_.

And Joe Penhale said Mark was in _Poland_.

I was unsure where these three differing stories came from until Mrs. Holcombe came to surgery the following day.

This time she bore a large bump on her head as well as the bedraggled sling on her right arm which I'd applied last week.

My eyes goggled at her a moment as she sat before me and my lips curled as I spoke. "Doing… windows? Again?"

"Yes!" she sat a bit straighter. "How'd you know?"

I sneered. "Lucky guess. Go on. What happened this time?" I walked over and looked at the bump on her head.

"You know we did have that awful rainstorm the other evening? Well, I just had to clean up the house. I called for Mylow and he was gone. Of course I knew he was leaving, but I didn't know when."

My head went up. "You did? Mark Mylow told you he was leaving?"

"Oh yes, he did. It was just before the Colonel discovered those rare birds nesting on the cliffs. Mylow had come by to help me with some clearing out in the garden. He mentioned all sorts of things. How he was planning on traveling. He went on about Poland of all places, something about plumbing - I'm still not that clear about that bit – how he was looking forward to seeing Hawaii, and how he was so looking forward to getting away."

"Right." Trying to change the subject I asked her, "and your new injury! The bump on the head?"

"Oh, that." She put a liver-spotted hand to her forehead. "That new policeman, what's his name? Oh yes - Penhale - was driving by my house as I was carrying the ladder from the garden. He stopped and helped me put up the ladder. Even held it for me as I washed the windows. Very nice – very helpful."

"Yes." I'd have to talk to Joe about that. "And then?"

"Well, he looked down the way and saw some teenagers mucking about. He jumped into the Rover and off he went, blue lights flashing." She smiled. "I feel so much safer with him around. PC Mylow had seemed a bit Bodmin lately. All distracted. Did you notice?"

I felt the egg-sized lump. "Nothing serious. You didn't lose consciousness? No dizziness?"

"No. Not a bit. Silly me. Penhale had gone you see and as I took the ladder down, it tilted and knocked a flower pot off a ledge. The silly thing hit me."

"Yes." The bump was suffused with blood. "A hematoma. That's a bruise, Mrs. Holcombe. I'm very glad that you were not seriously hurt."

"Doctor, I had to wash those windows. You see the estate agent was coming by…"

"Estate agent?"

"Why yes, I'm selling the place and moving into High Trees. Time to move on. A lot of my friends live there, including Muriel Steel. I think you know her and Danny, her son?"

My lip positively curled. "Yes. I know him."

"And I heard that he went back to London, recently. Such a shame, as I'd also heard that he and Louisa Glasson were quite the couple."

"Yes." My teeth ground together with great force. "You're fine. No pains; any other issues?"

She stood. "No, and I think I'll miss these little chats we have Doctor."

"Mrs. Holcombe, considering that these little chats, as you call them, are centered about the injuries incurred as you have cleaned your house, I find it hard to call them _chats_!"

The old lady smiled. "All the same, gave me an excuse to get and see people. Just like yourself."

"OH?"

"Well, I'd think it would get dreadfully boring sitting here day after day seeing coughs and colds – all that. Must be terrible unexciting!"

Mrs. Holcombe was standing just where Jonathon had been brandishing a loaded shotgun at Pauline in front of me, with Louisa's horrified expression on the other side. It also was where Mark Mylow had poured out his heart to me about Julie Mitchell. "Yes… unexciting." I answered. "But there are moments."

"And you see, people, like Mark Mylow, well they tell me things. Like his travel plans. He was all excited, wherever he was going. Some people thought PC Mylow was a bit Bodmin at times, but I also thought he was very nice – at least to me. And what people tell me; well I do tell to others…" She held out her hand and took mine. "Now, Doctor Ellingham, thank you for all the help. I may not be seeing you very much any more. You take care."

"Yes, and you."

"Oh, and Doctor? Please say hello to Louisa Glasson for me, won't you?"

"Why ever do you think I'll be seeing Louisa?"

She grinned ear to ear. "Well, I was thinking that with Danny Steel out of the picture, as it were…" she cleared her throat and smiled expectantly. "Well… the field is open?"

I could only point to the door. "Next patient!" I bellowed.


	19. Chapter 19

A Chance

"Martin? Are you in there? Hello?"

I looked up to see Louisa Glasson bending down peering at my face.

"Martin? You look all – concerned. Something wrong? What _are_ you reading?"

I was sitting on a bench outside the Crab and Lobster, holding a letter in my hand from Mark Mylow. It had come in the morning post and I'd stuffed into my pocket to read later, and later was this moment until Louisa interrupted.

I folded the letter and tucked it inside my suit coat. "Nothing," I said.

"Nothing? It's a letter. Has to be something!"

"Yes."

I'd just read that Mark's posting in Bournemouth was going well. He was able to visit with Emma, though he still called her Julie, every three days and her pregnancy was proceeding normally.

Louisa sat on the bench and scrunched close to me. "Who's it from?"

"An old friend."

"Oh? Someone from medical school?"

I didn't want to lie to her. "How is your throat? All better?"

"Oh, yes, ever so much. Back to normal, really."

"Fine - that's fine."

She drummed her fingers on her lap. "Nothing like an illness to make you appreciate… things."

"Oh? What things?"

She turned a brilliant smile to me. "Yes. Like when you came by that day. I was really feeling low. And your visit really picked me up… I mean the honey…" she paused and looked away, then back "did wonders."

I nodded. "Ah. Glad I could help."

She started to stand, saying, "Well, I'll be off. Just wanted to say…"

I interrupted her. "Louisa. I was thinking…"

"Yes?"

I looked at her beautiful face in the afternoon Cornwall sunshine. Her lips were parted over white teeth and her blue eyes showed great interest. My mind raced as to what to say next. Finally a thought lurched into place. "You look… healthy."

"Why Doc Martin! That is positively a major compliment, coming from you!"

I stood and looked down at her. "Still wondering about a drink… with me?"

"Well, yes." She rocked her head side to side and her pony tail swished. "Always welcome. I mean to have a drink, I mean…"

"To meet you at the pub."

"Well, yes… that's what I meant, of course."

"I'll just have, erh, water though."

"I know." She rocked back and forth. "Have you met the new constable, Joe Penhale?"

"Yes, I have." My lips curled. "He's… odd."

She laughed. "He is; isn't he? No Mark Mylow, that's for sure."

"Right."

She tipped her head. "So to the pub, that is, if you have time?"

I nodded.

Louisa started to walk and I followed. "Speaking of Mark, isn't it odd that he just left like that? Not telling anyone where he was going? And the whole thing with Julie Mitchell was just awful. Poor man."

"Yes," I said slowly.

"To find that the woman you love was someone else. And a criminal as well." She said sadly. "But he clearly loved her – a lot."

"Yes, I noticed."

She slowed and stopped. "You noticed?"

"Quite obvious, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes. But Mark, always like a terrier – once he sunk his teeth in he didn't let go." She sighed. "I wonder how he is. More important, _where_ he is."

The letter in my pocket could have answered Louisa's curiosity. His letter told me he was happy and looking to the future. "Oh…" I started and stopped.

Louisa turned to look at me. "Yes?"

"He's probably… erh, oh, I don't know."

She sighed. "We may never really know."

"Perhaps." I pointed up the street towards the Crab. "Shall we?"

"Alright. And have you heard that Al Large has left as well? Bert told me that Al went trekking off to a rain forest in Africa, of all places."

"No, I hadn't heard that." This was true.

"Pauline's upset. Hasn't heard from him in days."

"Yup," I answered. Pauline had been moping about, but she usually was, when at my surgery. Clearly office work was not her style.

Louisa turned and smiled. "Portwenn isn't very interesting or mysterious, I bet. Not as much as London. Is it?"

I looked at the head teacher of Portwenn School and realized that for all her smarts and education she really didn't know her own home very well. I smiled at her. "Oh, I'm not so certain about that."

"What do you mean Martin?"

"Nothing."

Louisa gave me a knowing stare. "I think you aren't telling me the whole story, are you? You know something!"

"I do not!" I did not like to lie, but I promised Mark I wouldn't tell anyone. Far too embarrassing for the local constable to run off with a crook, even he loved her to death. I mentally wished Mark and _Julie_, and the baby, were well. Mark wrote at the last:

_Doc, I'm just hoping that we can stay together. That we take the chance. No matter what comes._

Stay together. Going for it. Taking a chance. That pretty much summed up Mark Mylow and Julie Mitchell. There were many reasons why Mark could have, or _should_ have, stayed away from her. But in spite of it all, they had chosen to work together, because of love. That difficult four letter word that I struggle to voice.

I glanced at Portwenn's best known teacher, Miss Glasson, Louisa - their Miss G. I've known her for three years, and had recently barely managed to tell her I loved her. And we'd not been able to get back to that point. That was weeks ago. No normal day, or being threatened by a madman with a loaded shotgun, had we been able to recapture that moment. Mark Mylow had _gone for it_. And Louisa had not stayed with Danny Steel – _her_ version of going for it.

Louisa stood beside me. Tall and confident in herself and not afraid to stay here in Portwenn and also apparently not afraid to stay near me. I sighed internally. Maybe there was a chance still.

Louisa smiled once more and took my arm. "Well maybe I'll just have to work my womanly charms over you and pry the secrets out!" She laughed.

Portwenn, place of mystery, deception and subterfuge. "No, you're wrong. No secrets," I said.

Her ponytail swished as she looked back at me, with shining smile and flashing eyes. "Do tell." She said as we walked up the street with her arm firmly around mine.

- The End -

**Thanks for reading along on this otherwise untold story of Mark Mylow and his interaction with the people of Portwenn. I wish to thank all of you for your honest, frank, and helpful comments and suggestions, and all the encouragement as I wrote this bit of fan fiction.**

**I confess that I put the wrong words into Doc Martin's mouth. This was my error – not his.**

**Streptococcus infection of the throat does NOT lead to mononucleosis. Strep is caused by a **_**bacterium**_**. Mono is caused by the **_**Epstein-Barr virus**_**. The symptoms of mono – severe sore throat, etc – are similar to that of strep throat in early stages. **

**I forgot this little bit of info as was I reminded today by my MD spouse. And I should have known better myself as our daughter once had mono! So I went a bit Bodmin at the keyboard. Sorry for any confusion. **

**This is why writing about medicine is far different than practicing it. And I am no doctor, just an engineer pretending to be an author writing about a doctor!**

**The characters of Portwenn are owned by Buffalo Productions and I wish to thank them for unofficially loaning them to me for this bit of fiction.**

**Also I big thank you goes to **_**ggo85**_** for making me think very hard about where this story was heading!**

**Cheers,**

**Rob**


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